


The Shadow and the Sea

by ExaltedBrand



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Thracia 776
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Intimacy, Kissing, Nightmares, Nudity, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Pseudo-Incest, Trauma, brief descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27921193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExaltedBrand/pseuds/ExaltedBrand
Summary: Haunted by nightmares of the Shadow Sword's influence, Mareeta looks to the very source of her guilt for comfort.
Relationships: Brigid/Mareeta, Eyvel/Mareeta
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	The Shadow and the Sea

The same dream. No matter how many times Mareeta suffered through it, it was always the same dream.

There was an arena. Shapeless, indistinct, drawn from her memories; high stone walls stretching into never-ending darkness, columns twisting in impossible ways. The dull, constant thud of a crowd – somewhere close, somewhere far away, a dozen spectators or a thousand. The details could differ from moment to moment. They never held still, never settled; even changed, sometimes, in the middle of a dream, with all the sudden violence of a storm rushing through a peaceful forest.

The details changed because they didn’t matter. Because Mareeta couldn’t remember them. There had been an arena—high walls and columns, grey brick with a dash of red—in the real world, just as there had been spectators. But the rest fell away; fell so out of focus that it blurred into nothing and left only what was necessary to torment her.

The sword. There was the sword in her hand, too. A black hilt embellished with gold, a blade that shifted in the odd light of the shadows between hues of silver and purple and pink. And the whispers. The orders to slice, to stab; to slit and carve and rend. To kill.

She had no choice: not now, in the dream, nor back then. No choice but to give in; to be consumed by bloodlust; to kill the woman right there in front of her.

It was a strange inconsistency. When it had all really happened, there had been two women, not just the one. Nanna, somehow, had escaped Mareeta’s dream, just as she’d escaped the real arena with Leif and the others. And while Mareeta was glad—glad that Nanna had been left unharmed in both realities, and glad that their friendship hadn’t been spoiled by guilt—the nightmares had only driven deeper into her mind for the other girl’s absence, focusing in on the one person, above all others, who meant everything to her.

Eyvel. Her mother. The woman who had saved her from slavers when she’d been so young and helpless; the woman who had raised her and trained her and cared for her when the rest of the world had forgotten her; the woman who would have given anything to see her safe. Here she was—that kind, wonderful woman—in Mareeta’s dream. A clear, sharp image against the uncertainty of the arena, captured in all her beauty. Even in a dream, where the familiar could be warped and exaggerated, there’d been no need for embellishment with her. She looked as perfect here as she did in real life.

That was why Mareeta hated it all so much. Why she hated what she had to do to her. Every night, she’d be made a puppet to the sword all over again – powerful and powerless all at once. There was a pattern to it, regular and unchanging: first the rage, then the thirst for violence as her sword bit into Eyvel’s arm and drew out a delicious scream, and finally the defeat, bitter like poison, as Eyvel took her into her arms and gently restrained her. A loving embrace, even as her blood spilled out across the floor. Only briefly, at the edge of her consciousness, did Mareeta see how it ended – and she could never close her eyes to it, could never look away and just let the dream end. It forced her to watch as the arena flashed with green light, as her mother’s words of comfort broke off into a strained gasp, and as the arms holding her close turned cold and hard with the weight of stone.

It always worried her, when morning finally came, how easy it had been to hurt someone so important to her – and how wonderful it had felt.

* * *

The only thing that worried her more was how easy it was to forget the dream. As the early morning turned to day—when the wind swept through the grass, when the villages came alive, when the mountains around Fiana seemed to rise in time with the sun—Mareeta’s nerves settled into silence and hid themselves away in her heart.

She should have been glad for it. The day offered a reprieve from the nightmares; gave her a chance to forget. The Munster District—even if it wouldn’t last forever—was at peace. Grannvale’s influence had been stripped away, the Loptr Church’s presence had been reduced to nothing, and her mother – her mother was alive. Free of her petrification, free of all the troubles of war, and free to live, at last, as she wanted.

However, while the sword had been tempered, and the evil lurking within had been tamed, it was dangerous to believe that it was all in the past. The dream was a constant, painful reminder that the weapon’s power over her hadn’t come from the strength of its curse, but from her own weakness. Saias had reassured her, quite insistently, that the curse was gone; but for as long as the memory of it haunted her in her sleep, and for as long as the doubts remained, she couldn’t be sure. Something—whether a curse, an evil, or her darkest fears—still lingered.

She could keep up a brave face, and she could cast the dream aside so long as she had distractions to occupy her time. But beneath it all, she was scared. Scared of hurting her mother again – of answering those kind eyes with hatred, of trying to drive a blade through her heart just to feel the warmth of her blood. The past few months had hardened her spirit, stamping out the vulnerable child for a seasoned warrior, but a warrior without a war to fight could grow complacent so easily. It’d only take a single moment of weakness, she thought, to lose herself all over again.

And yet she’d still returned to Fiana; to the little village where she’d spent most of her life. It hardly resembled itself now: a sad heap of rubble with only a few houses left standing, surrounded by a cluster of tents and caravans piled high with materials for reconstruction. It’d be many months—maybe even a year or two—before everything returned to normal.

But Eyvel was there – leading the Freeblades, as she’d done in the days before the war, and coordinating the efforts to rebuild and reunite the fractured community. And despite her nightmares and anxieties, Mareeta had come to realise that she only ever felt at home—felt that she was welcome, that she belonged—in her mother’s company. No matter where that home was, or how it looked from the outside.

There was something cruel about it, she thought. Something unfair. When she was with her mother, she was terrified of hurting her. But when they were apart, she felt lost and alone – unmoored from the world, wandering without purpose.

The war had changed her. Age and experience had left their marks; and where a girl had left the village as Munster’s captive, a young woman had returned in her place. Even still, some parts of the girl, whether for stubbornness or fear of growing up, wouldn’t leave her alone.

Mareeta was a warrior, a freedom fighter, a princess of a kingdom she’d never see. But deep down, she was also desperate for the sort of unconditional love and affection she could only find in her mother’s arms.

* * *

That night, long after the other Freeblades and labourers had retired to their tents, she’d decided to confess everything to her mother. The dream, which haunted her every night; the visions of the Shadow Sword working its influence on her, forcing her to do such terrible things; and her fears that if it ever took control again, she wouldn’t be strong enough to stop herself from hurting the people she loved. Eyvel, in turn, had listened with patience and understanding: she’d spoken only to encourage her daughter along whenever words failed her, never dismissing her concerns, or treating her like a child, or giving her anything less than her full attention. She’d taken Mareeta’s confession to heart, had considered it with the same thought and sincerity she’d shown her from the day they’d met – and had offered, after only a few moments of contemplation, to prove to her that she didn’t have to be afraid.

It wouldn’t have been enough, her mother had clearly realised, to hold Mareeta close and whisper a few words of comfort: to tell her that the dreams weren’t real, that the sword’s influence was gone, that everything was going to be alright. Words could ease her worries, but they couldn’t dispel them forever, or prove that she was wrong to have them. Words could be mistaken. Such proof—such reassurance—could only be found by venturing further than words.

Eyvel had to show her daughter, beyond all doubt, that she was completely in control of herself – and that even when she and the sword were presented with the perfect opportunity, she’d never hurt someone she cared for.

That was how they’d ended up in such an unusual way: how Eyvel had stripped herself bare of her clothes, casting aside her sword, her dagger, her every last bit of protection; and how Mareeta found herself staring down at her on the bedroll in the darkness of her mother’s tent, straddling her hips and taking in the sight of her pale, scarred skin.

“Mareeta,” her mother whispered, brushing a thumb against one of her earrings. “I want you to feel at peace around me. To trust yourself like I trust you. So, please… do whatever you want with me.”

Mareeta’s hands wandered, almost involuntarily, across the older woman—along the shape of her hips, the curves of her waist, the firmness of her stomach—then up her cheek, catching the golden locks of her hair between her fingers and wondering how they could feel so soft.

She didn’t know what to do, what to say. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of breaking the silence hovering in the air; the unsteady, uncertain intimacy that she couldn’t find the words to address or question. She could only find herself drawn to Eyvel’s features – to her scars, to her muscles, to the way her chest rose and fell so slowly in a rhythm as steady as the open sea.

The vulnerability surprised her. Here was a woman who had always been there to protect and guide her; who had always inspired such admiration in her; who had always seemed so strong and fearless to her. But now, without her armor or her weapons, and with the shadows concealing her strength, Mareeta could only notice how small and fragile she looked. How defenceless she was.

Mareeta’s own sword was close to hand. Too close. It rested at the foot of the bedroll, just a few inches away, and shone almost invitingly in the dark. An odd place for it, by any measure. But her mother had insisted on keeping it nearby. She’d wanted to make it as easy as possible, so she’d said, for Mareeta to kill her. By making herself so helpless, she was daring the sword to make up for its failure in the arena – and showing her daughter, in doing so, just how little influence it really had.

A dangerous gamble, Mareeta found herself thinking, because it would have been easy. So easy, like this, to kill her. To pick up the sword and slice her throat, or cut open her chest, or slowly pierce her lungs and watch the light fade from her eyes.

Yes – nothing would have been _easier_. The trust her mother had in her—giving her free rein to do as she pleased—was absolute. It made her the perfect target for the sword’s wrath.

Mareeta’s fingers traced idle patterns over Eyvel’s belly; felt the warm skin and the soft, supple body that quivered under her touch. Without thinking, she realised that a blade would have carved through her without resistance, separating muscle from tendon, flesh from bone, blood from vein. One quick movement, and it’d all be over – leaving behind only a corpse, silent and still, to be discovered in the morning. A mangled pile of limbs sliced into clean, perfect shapes.

The thought made her want to throw up.

On the battlefield, she’d had little choice but to kill. She’d cut down the enemy’s soldiers because there hadn’t been any other way; because Eyvel had trained her with a sword so that she could protect her friends whenever they found themselves in danger. She’d grown numb to it, too – but even that had only been a necessity. A way of coping with all the bloodshed and violence.

But was that really the reason? Or had she grown numb to all the killing because the sword was right about her?

Was that who she was? A killer?

“Mother…”

The word tasted odd on her lips. Inappropriate, almost, given the position they were in. But she couldn’t imagine the woman in any other way.

“Yes, love?”

The hand by her ear drifted higher, stroking at her cheek; comforting her, reassuring her. It felt so nice. So kind, and soft, and safe.

“I… Mother, I…”

One by one, the words tumbled through her mind, each less rational than the last.

_I love you._

_I need you._

_I want…_

They seemed too strange, too bizarre to say. Want? What did she want? To be by her side? To stay with her in Fiana, as she’d always done? To have everything return to way it had once been?

 _I don’t want you to go_ , she thought. _I don’t want you to leave me._

There it was. The words—the thought, the feeling she was grasping at—drew clearer in her mind. And as they took shape, they became coherent.

_I don’t want you to die._

No – no, she wasn’t a killer. She’d never butcher someone so violently, so horribly. Never. Not Eyvel, not a friend like Leif or Nanna. Not even a monster like Duke Raydrik, who had undoubtedly deserved a more gruesome fate than he’d received. It went against decency, against her nature. Against everything she stood for.

That stupid sword could whisper all it liked. It could fill her head with nightmares, and it could make her writhe and scream in the night. But she wouldn’t let it turn her into a monster. Not ever again.

Her mother was still waiting. Waiting patiently, as she’d always done – waiting to hear her wishes, her worries. She’d left herself so open, had put herself at Mareeta’s mercy, had asked her—dared her, all to prove a point—to do whatever she wanted with her.

“It’s okay.” Eyvel’s fingers ran up through Mareeta’s hair, brushing a few strands aside to look into her eyes. “Do you see? There’s nothing be to be afraid of. You’re not a vessel for that accursed sword, or Raydrik’s puppet. You’re you, love. Just you.”

Somehow, she’d always had a way of knowing Mareeta’s thoughts – and a way of knowing the right things to say, even when words alone, as then, weren’t enough.

And she’d been right. She’d proved it. Mareeta wasn’t going to hurt her. Even when there was nothing to stop her, and the sword was right there, she couldn’t. She loved her mother too much for that; loved her more than anything else in the world.

So maybe it was time to prove something of her own. To prove that she’d understood her mother’s lesson, that she’d decided that she was in control and not the sword. To prove the extent of her conviction, and her devotion. And her love.

She drew closer, pressing down into her mother’s arms, and nuzzled her neck; felt the delicate warmth of her body, the scent of her skin like wildflowers and the taste brushing her lips like the ocean’s salt.

The ocean, again. Something about Eyvel seemed so in tune with the sea: so formless, so fathomless, but so beautiful. And with all the gentleness of the waves, she found those who needed her the most, lost and adrift, and brought them safely to the shore – to grow strong and find new happiness.

Her kindness, too, was as boundless as the ocean. She’d never once asked for anything in return.

Slowly, softly, Mareeta strayed higher: to Eyvel’s ear, her jaw, her cheek. The sensations, like a blade all of their own, cut to her core. They stirred emotions she couldn’t explain, evoked such wonder for this woman she’d loved for so many years but knew almost nothing about. As she moved—as her lips pressed more firmly against her mother’s cheek, almost in an act of worship—she felt the older woman shiver beneath her, as if experiencing those same emotions for the very first time.

And when Mareeta closed the last bit of distance in a timid, uncertain kiss, Eyvel’s breath caught in another reaction. She gasped, short and sharp, and her fingers held still in Mareeta’s hair for just a moment.

A flicker of surprise. Surprise at her daughter crossing a threshold of intimacy that should have been forbidden, should have felt wrong.

But just as Mareeta felt a swell of shame and humiliation—just as she realised, too, what she’d done, and thought to pull back and apologise—Eyvel pushed forward, and their lips met again.

The second kiss became a third, then a fourth; and the sweet, chaste touches gave way to something hungrier, something passionate. Their eyes closed; their bodies pressed more firmly together; and the warmth of their embrace filled them, driving out Mareeta’s last lingering fears of the Shadow Sword’s influence.

She knew so little about this woman, really. She never spoke of her past—of the days before she’d rescued Mareeta, before she’d come to Fiana and founded the Freeblades—nor did she ever talk about her own feelings, her own desires. She kept everything bottled up inside her, like a tight knot of emotions she refused to acknowledge or discuss. Only rarely, in her most vulnerable moments, would she let her guard down long enough to reveal the lonely woman hidden beneath.

And in _this_ moment—this spark of vulnerability, this outpouring of affection—Mareeta didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know if it was right or wrong; didn’t know if the older woman was her mother or a stranger; didn’t know if this was the waking world or just another dream.

As they gently made love, and as she felt her green tunic loosen and fall freely away, she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> and to think it only took us 30 fics to reach FE5
> 
> If you enjoyed this story (and if you're interested in updates on my writing), feel free to follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ExaltedBrandAO3)! I'm more than happy to take requests for F/F rarepairs either here or on there into account for the future.


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